only know the worst
of me, and he--he knows, he understands, the rest. There's something in
me that you've never seen; you couldn't see it; you wouldn't believe in
it; you'd kill it if I stayed with you. It's no use talking, for I
won't."

"Why not?" he asked as if nothing she had said had been of any moment.

"I've told you why not. But I don't expect you to understand it."

"If there's anything in it I shall understand it in the end. I'm not a
fool."

"No, you're not a fool. I'll say that for you."

"Unless it's folly to be as fond of you as I am."

"Oh, no, that's not folly. You'll be fond of me just as long as I'm nice
to look at; as long as it doesn't bore you to talk to me; as long as I
don't give you any trouble."

"Good God! Why, look at the trouble you're giving me now."

"Yes, the trouble I'm giving you now, when I'm young and pretty and you
can't have me. But when you _have_ had me; when I'm tired out and ill
and--and thin; will you be fool enough to be fond of me then?"

"You have been ill, you were ill last night, and--I've got over it."

"You never came near me when I was ill at Matlock. You call that giving
me what Robert Lucy gives me? Robert has seen me when I've been as ugly
as sin, when my eyes have been bunged up with crying. And it made no
difference. He'll love me when I'm thin and ill and old. When I'm dead
he'll love me."

He faced her passion as it flamed up before him, faced it with his cold,
meditative smile.

"That's just what makes it such a beastly shame."

"My not giving him up? How _can_ I give him up?"

"I see your point. You think you're exchanging a temporary affection for
a permanent one. You admit that I shall love you as long as you're nice
to look at. Very well. You'll be nice to look at for some considerable
time. I shall therefore love you for some considerable time. Robert Lucy
will love you just as long as he believes in you. How long will that
be?"

She did not answer.

"You don't know. Have you calculated the probable effect of gradual
enlightenment on our friend's mind?"

"I've calculated nothing."

"No. You are not a calculating woman. I just ask you to consider this
point. I am not, as you know, in the least surprised at any of your
charming little aberrations. But our friend Lucy has not had many
surprises in his life. He'll come to you with an infinite capacity for
astonishment. It's quite uncertain how he'll take--er--anything in the
nature of a